


she of tattered wings

by traitorhero



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Critical Role Reverse Bang 2016, Gen, Mind Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8621191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traitorhero/pseuds/traitorhero
Summary: At fifteen she learned loss, first through her family, then by being left behind.At seventeen she led a rebellion, failed, and somehow survived.At twenty... at twenty she doesn’t know what to do.





	1. fleeing

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the lovely piece of art by [axelrawrr](http://axelrawrr.tumblr.com/post/153546970847/we-will-have-that-talk-percival-when-you-return) for the 2016 Critical Role Reverse Bang

She saw Percy stumbling away, the blue coat she had shoved in his arms as they escaped the dungeon fading into the snowstorm. The baying of the hounds came closer, and Cassandra gritted her teeth. Reaching her hand forward, she dug her fingers into the snow, and began to pull herself in the direction he had vanished. It was slow going, her fingers growing sluggish as the cold sunk into her bones. The sounds of the search party grew louder as she struggled forward a few feet. As she stopped to breathe, Cassandra resigned herself to the fact that there was no way she would be able to catch up to where Percy disappeared. Her only remaining option to escape those who sought her was to hide.

A bramble thicket was the only option in sight, and Cassandra forced her tired hands to drag her body into it. The thorny branches cut her palms as she grabbed them, casting red against the snow that had trickled through to the ground. She bit her lip as she maneuvered herself deeper into the thicket, her vision whiting out as the arrow caught against thin branches. As she tried to move away, the arrow seemed to seat itself deeper in her back. 

It took a moment for her to regain her breath, and she couldn’t help but gasp for a breath. A thin red mist sprayed from between her lips, and floated in the air for a moment before dispersing. Even though the thought of moving again hurt, she turned and tugged herself to face the clearing. The branches of the briar patch hung low, hopefully helping in her attempt to hide. Closing her eyes, Cassandra laid her head against the frozen ground, a few tears leaking from beneath her lids. 

“The dogs have a scent!”

Cassandra kept her eyes closed as her pursuers drew closer to her bramble thicket. As a hound sniffed near her, she mouthed a silent prayer to Pelor. A plea, to hide her from the ones who would harm her. Who had harmed Julius, and Vesper, and Oliver, and Whitney, and Ludwig, and Mother and Father... Who had hurt Percy so badly that he barely recognized her when she opened up the cell they had thrown him in. 

The hound sneezed, and Cassandra opened her eyes at the sudden noise. The animal was a scarce foot from her, frozen with its snout in the air. It sneezed again, casting its head from side to side in confusion. The hound’s dark eyes, sharp enough to see in the gloom of the night, didn’t focus on her, even as one of the branches she lay on cracked under her weight.

“Tova!”

The hound jerked around and ran back to the one who called for it. The voice sounded vaguely female, but the timber was deeper than most. A spray of snow from the hound’s flight back to his mistress caught Cassandra in the face, but she couldn’t find it in herself to mind. Whatever blessing had just distracted the animal meant that she was still free. For a little while longer at least, until the cold sapped away the rest of her strength. There were worse ways to go, she was certain. Like the way Whitney’s neck hung...

The bile that dripped out of her mouth and into the snow had a dark tinge of red to it. Perhaps it would not be the cold, then. It was a horrible thought, and she couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped her chest. The pain that it brought sent her into another coughing fit, but Cassandra couldn’t find herself able to care much. 

The sound of the hounds faded, and from the sounds of it, they had reached the small river that ran alongside Whitestone. Perhaps Percy had kept enough of his wits about him to make it there, to use it to disguise his trail from his pursuers. His eyes had been glassy when she found him in the dungeons, the skin visible through his torn and bloodied clothing a mass of purple and black. She had almost left him there.

She should have. It had been one of the jailer’s shouts that alerted the guards to Percy’s escape. Without him accompanying her, his stumbling gait making it hard for them to gain ground before the guards sighted them with their bows, she might have been able to make it out. Instead, she was to die here, alone.

Cassandra rested her cheek against the ground, absently noticing that the vomit next to her had almost completely frozen over. Strangely, the ground  against her stomach didn’t feel cold enough to have done that. The thought frightened her, the lessons that Mother and Father had instilled in their children coming to the forefront of her mind. The cold, then, would kill her faster than the arrows in her back. It would be kinder than the suffocation by her own blood as it entered her lungs. 

She turned her eyes upward, looking out into the woods. The trees were heavy with snow, a few clumps falling now and again as the weight grew too much for the branches to bear. It was odd to think that the same white would cover her bramble bower, hiding her body until the snow melted in the spring. Maybe they would never find her body, and she would rest in the soil of Whitestone for the rest of the ages. 

Cassandra felt a smile on her lips again. The strange thoughts were comforting, in a macabre way. As she continued to watch the snow fall, a shadow darting through the trees caught her eye. The figure crept through the trees, making a beeline for where she hid. She might have panicked, but fear was too much work to conjure. As the figure grew closer, she could see a small light they had clutched in their hand, a flicker no larger than the dying ember of a fire. The little illumination was enough that she could recognize the man who held it. 

Father Reinhalt stopped in the middle of the clearing, the light-imbued amulet he held flaring into a brilliant glow. He held it aloft, letting the light scatter against the trees, as he cast his eyes around. Cassandra watched as his shoulders slumped, the light dimming again. With a sigh, he hung it around his neck, letting the amulet fall back against his chest. 

“Why here?” he muttered to the empty air. “Why is it that you called me here?”

He shook his head as he looked around the clearing once more. Cassandra tried to move her hand, but only succeeded in jostling a bit of snow from the thicket. The movement, small as it was, hurt more than she expected, and a pained whimper escaped her. It was barely louder than the crunch of snow under Father Reinhalt’s boots as he started back the way he came. She saw his back straighten, and he cocked his head to the side. With her last bit of strength, Cassandra knocked the branch again, letting out a low cry as her frozen fingers scrabbled against the ground. 

Father Reinhalt turned back into the clearing, and Cassandra felt an ember of hope in her chest. Rather than scanning the trees, his gaze instead on the snow covered forest floor. His gaze seemed to skip over her little hiding place, before he reached his hand up to rub at his eyes. Cassandra watched him press his palms together in some sort of prayer, his lips moving in a soundless prayer.

“Puh-” she stuttered, her tongue heavy in her mouth. The words she wanted to say fell silent, and she felt her chapped lips crack from the attempt to talk. 

His eyes snapped open, glowing with a soft yellow light. They found her own, and Cassandra felt a warm touch against her hair. Father Reinhalt stumbled over to her thicket, the light fading from his eyes. He pushed the brambles away, ignoring the way they caught at his coat and tangled in the wool.

“Cassandra?”

There was a sense of wonderment in his voice. She tried to smile at him, but the last vestiges of her strength were fading. The death she had feared would not occur; she would not be alone in her final moments. He pulled one of the patches of briar away, unwittingly tugging one of the arrows impaled in her back. She felt it pull free and gasped at the sudden pain. A warm wetness, so contradictory to the cold that suffused her frame, slid along her ribs.

Father Reinhalt cursed above her. It was one of the phrases that she had learned not to say around Mother if she wanted to have dessert. If she could have, Cassandra would have laughed at the fact that the man whom her Father held as a paragon of virtue swore like a common blacksmith. Instead, her eyes slid closed without her consent. Father Reinhalt swore again, and Cassandra felt a warmth try and wind its way through her frozen limbs. The heat vanished as soon as it had appeared, leaving the winter chill to reclaim her. Rather than listen to Father Reinhalt’s pleas to stay awake as he bundled her into his arms, Cassandra let the dark and cold take her.

The next thing she knew was pain. It felt as if someone was placing a heated rod against her skin, and she tried to move her leg away. Strong hands grabbed at the moving limb, holding it in place as the pain tapered to a dull throb. Muffled voices spoke around her, but the little that she could open her eyes gave her nothing. A wooden wall, sturdy in its construction, stood across from where she lay on her stomach, with some sort of decoration on it. From her vantage point she couldn’t make out what it was. 

She let out a cry as a different pain. This one felt as if someone was reaching inside her skin, their fingers searching for something. There was a sharp tug, and she felt a hand laid against the bare skin of her back. Heat radiated from it, but instead of being painful like her leg, it was comforting. It lulled her back into sleep, and Cassandra drifted again.The sweet, dreamless sleep that the warmth had granted lasted for a time. Slowly, however, it began to fade, and the nightmarish landscapes overtook her. 


	2. dreaming

Her mother escorted her back to her room after the banquet with the Briarwoods, dropping a kiss on her forehead. Cassandra smiled after her, briefly catching sight of Lord and Lady Briarwood as Professor Anders escorted them to their rooms. There was something about the way Lady Briarwood looked at her, but she turned to her husband before Cassandra could identify what it was. Lord Briarwood leaned down to let her whisper in his ear, his gaze drifting over to her for a moment. He lifted an eyebrow as his wife finished, but nodded and tapped Professor Anders’ shoulder.

They disappeared around a corner into the guest quarters, and Cassandra felt her shoulders slump. It was rare that they would have visitors of an equal station in Whitestone, and the whole castle had been in a tizzy to impress them. Shelves in barely used rooms were dusted, and Percival’s more explosive inventions had been banished to the small blacksmithy their parents had constructed for him on his sixteenth birthday. After nearly a week, the castle looked fit enough to host even the Emperor, and Cassandra was half-convinced that they would in the future.

Closing the door to her room, Cassandra leaned against it and sighed. Pulling herself upright again, she began to undo the pearl buttons of her gown. The heavy fabric pooled around her feet, leaving her in nothing but her shift. She shivered as she toed off her shoes, leaving them beside the gown, and took two steps before diving into her bed. Cassandra winced as her knees hit metal, and she pulled out the bed warmer one of the maids must have left before turning in for the night. She set it on the floor before climbing between the warm covers, sighing in relief as her toes warmed again.

As she leaned her head against the pillows, pinpricks of pain across her skull sat her upright again. Muttering a word that Mother would be scandalized to find in her vocabulary, Cassandra began to pull the pins from her hair, tossing them onto her night table. She ran her fingers through her hair, and knew that the curls she would have in the morning would leave Whitney envious. Her sister had inherited their mother’s pin straight hair, and had often lamented the fact that she had to sit with hot rollers in her hair for hours to achieve the same curls.

Cassandra smirked as she snuggled into her pillow. She would wear her hair down in the morning, if only to hear Whitney huff in annoyance. Mother would shake her head at their antics, but wouldn’t say anything while the Briarwoods were still in residence. Slowly, she drifted off into dreams of dancing bears with fairy wings. A thump shook her awake for a moment, and she turned to her window. A sliver of the moon hung in the sky, just barely enough to illuminate the forest below.

Drawing her covers to her chin, Cassandra tried to fall back into her dreams. Instead of the magical ball that had inhabited them, visions of monsters and demons crept in. The beautiful marble dance floor turned dark with blood as the creatures descended on the dancing bears. A few split away, turning to her family as they sat frozen in their chairs. She closed her eyes as one came for her, jolting awake as she smelled its fetid breath.

She shivered underneath her covers, the last vestiges of the dream replaying over and over in her mind. The clouded sky outside her window did little to alleviate the dream, hanging heavy in the sky and blocking any light that would have chased away the nightmare. Biting the inside of her lip, Cassandra slid out of her bed, the cool stone of the floor helping to chase away the last bit of sleep that claimed her. Her robe hung over the edge of her chair, and she threw it on as she made her way to the door.

As she went to turn the handle of her door it stuck, as if someone had locked it. Cassandra frowned and crouched to eye level with the keyhole. She turned to get as full of a view of the hallway as she could, but there appeared to be no one in the corridor. Jiggling the lock again as she stood, nothing seemed to give and she hit the wood in frustration.

“Ludwig, this isn’t funny,” she shouted at the door. “Unlock my door, right now! I’ll tell Mother!”

Silence was her only answer. Cassandra pounded her fist against the door again and let out an inarticulate scream. That, it seemed, finally got someone’s attention. The sound of pattering footsteps caught her ear, and she pressed her ear to the door. There was a sound like metal slipping against itself, before the person came to rest outside her door.

“Hello?” Cassandra asked. “Who’s there?”

“You’re alive!” Professor Anders replied, joy suffusing his voice. The way he said it was strange, as if there was something miraculous about the fact.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Cassandra said. A cold knot of dread formed in her stomach, and she pressed her eye to the keyhole again. Professor Anders stood a few inches from the door, just enough that she could see the mantle he wore while teaching. A few dark spots stained it, looking almost like ink against the green fabric. “Professor, what’s happened?”

“There’s some kind of sickness,” he stuttered. “Your parents are sick in their chambers. I’ve been ordered to keep you locked in your chambers until it’s run the course.”

“Is anyone else sick?”

“Everyone, my dear. It is a miracle that you have not taken ill as well.”

“Then let me out,” she told him. “Perhaps I can help-”

“My instructions were very clear, Cassandra. I cannot.”

Cassandra rammed her fist against the door again. “You can’t keep me in here.”

“I must, until this is done. I’ll return with some food for you.”

Before she could retort, Professor Anders turned and walked out of range of the keyhole. Rather than fruitlessly waste her energy against the door, Cassandra turned to pacing her room. She knew Professor Anders would have to open the door to give her the food he had promised, which meant that she had an opportunity to go to her parents. If they were sick, it stood to reason that she was as well, and no harm could come of them being together. It would be easy enough to squeak past Professor Anders as he opened the door, and she was faster than him. Secure in her decision, Cassandra stood by the door and waited for his return.

It wasn’t long before she heard his footfalls again. Preparing herself, Cassandra waited for the door to open. Instead, a purple shimmer grew near the edge of the door, an arcane magic she had never seen before. As it faded it left a plate of food behind, which she recognized as leftovers from the previous night’s feast. So entranced by it, she barely noticed as Professor Anders’ footfalls went away. A bubble of rage grew in her chest, and Cassandra couldn’t stop the tears that spilled down her cheeks. She was truly trapped in this room until whatever illness her family had contracted was dealt with.

The next few days passed in much of the same order. In the mornings Professor Anders would drop off a tray of food, before telling her that nothing had changed in the states of her parents and siblings. It wasn’t until the third day that she asked about the Briarwoods, and Professor Anders’ tone changed, a tone of reverence entering his voice that he quickly hid.

“They have secluded themselves as well,” he told her. “Both seem much like yourself, however. Whatever has struck your parents has left them alone.”

By the fourth day, after doing everything that she could in her room, Cassandra took to sitting by the door. Listening as hard as she could for hours on end, she heard nothing. There was no sound of maids walking the halls, or of the house guards changing their positions at the hours. Except for the visits of Professor Anders in the mornings, the castle seemed to be silent. Too silent.

It was suspicious. Surely if her parents were as sick as Professor Anders had implied, there would be clerics or priests to attend them. And yet the halls were as silent as the day after the feast. The cold knot in her stomach seemed to grow as the hours passed, and it grew harder and harder to choke down the food she was brought.

On the fifth day, Cassandra was done with the “news” that Professor Anders brought her every morning. Dressing in a comfortable dress and boots, she waited an hour after he had left, before taking two of the hairpins she had tossed on her night table. Lockpicking had never been something that she had put her mind to, but Father had never actively discouraged her attempts. Often when she attempted to break into his locked drawers she found a candy or some other treat seated. Sticking her tongue between her teeth, Cassandra let the distractions and worries of the last few days sweep from her mind.

With a click, the lock opened. Smiling to herself, Cassandra stuck the pins through the messy bun she had put her hair in. She stepped into the hall, checking to either side to see if anyone had set a guard on her. There was no one, and she shivered, the hair on the back of her neck sticking up. A few dark stains seemed to mar the rug that ran the length of the hallway, and Cassandra backed away rather than get a closer look at it.

Tip-toeing down the hall, she passed Whitney’s door. Unlike her own door, it hung half-open, the room behind it cast in shadow. She pushed it open further, revealing Whitney sitting at the open window, her head pillowed on her arm. Cassandra entered the room, drawing closer to where her sister lay. As she did her brow furrowed, taking in the clothes that Whitney was wearing. It was the same dress that she had worn for the banquet, although there were a few tears along the hem of the skirt, as if she had stepped on it in some sort of haste. Reaching her hand out, she jostled Whitney’s shoulder to wake her.

Her sister’s head tipped back at an odd, inhuman angle. Cassandra leapt backwards as Whitney’s body fell off of the settee, her hands clapped to her mouth to forestall any noise she might have made. Whitney’s glassy eyes stared at her, the vivid blue that she remembered faded to a pale grey. Her stomach heaved, and Cassandra couldn’t stop the small bit of food that she had been able to eat that morning from spattering across the floor. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she stepped towards the door, her eyes unable to leave Whitney’s until she had closed the door to where it had been.

Cassandra took a few deep breaths, trying to compose herself. Without wanting to, she moved towards her parent’s bedroom. A small voice in the back of her head warned of what she could see, but Cassandra pressed on. Like Whitney’s room, her parent’s bedroom was unlocked. Unlike the cold room that Whitney had been in, a stench of death leaked from behind it. Steeling herself, she opened the door.

It was dark enough that she couldn’t see specifics, but the crimson that bled along her parent’s once white sheets was confirmation enough. As she stepped closer, she could just barely make out the image of her mother’s face, eyes closed and mouth relaxed, a large gash torn across her throat. Her father’s face was covered, but the sheets that covered him were stained through, barely hiding the rips from swords or daggers that had taken him from her.

She took a deep breath, trying to forestall herself from vomiting again. The stench of the room did little to help, but Cassandra turned away from the horrific image and was greeted with her parent’s armoire. An idea came to her, and she pulled it open. A thick, dark green cloak, one of her Mother’s, went around her shoulders as she pulled a pair of gloves out and tucked them in her belt. Going to close it again, she caught sight of one of her Father’s coats, dark blue with silver stitching. Something urged her to grab it as well, and within an instant she had it bundled in her arms. If nothing else, it could serve as a blanket.

Taking one last glance at her parent’s bodies, Cassandra returned to the hall. Although a part of her wanted to look in the rest of her sibling’s rooms, but she shook off the idea. Whatever time she had was short, as the sky darkened towards night. Whatever coup had happened, it had left her alive, which meant that she had a duty as a daughter of the de Rolo line to stay that way.

The house stayed silent as she made her way down to the first floor. A few splashes of blood, more obvious on the stone tile towards the kitchens, made it clear that whatever had happened while she slept had been violent. Try as she might, she couldn’t think of a reason that she wouldn’t have heard the commotion, or why she would have been spared.

Voices, the first she had heard besides Professor Anders, had her ducking into one of the hall closets, barely hiding herself before a trio of people made their way past. Lady Briarwood walked with no seeming regard for the bloodstains that littered the hall, while Professor Anders seemed to hop from place to place to avoid them. Their third compatriot, a woman she vaguely recognized as being introduced as Lord Briarwood’s physician, Anna Ripley, seemed of the same mind as Lady Briarwood, walking through them as if they didn’t exist.

“The boy’s giving me nothing useful,” Anna said. “At first I thought he was being stubborn, but now...”

“A shame none of the others were left alive,” Lady Briarwood agreed. “But you were the one who thought the pup might know something.”

“He was an interesting dinner companion,” Anna conceded. “His ideas for uses of black powder certainly are fascinating.”

Professor Anders huffed in annoyance, passing just inches from the door which she had hidden behind. “I told you Percival wasn’t worth the trouble. None of them were.”

“Even the girl?”

“Cassandra has a different purpose,” Lady Briarwood interjected. “Don’t tarry too long with the boy, Anna. We will have need of your talents soon enough.”

“He’s currently resting in his cell. If I can’t get anything from him by tonight-”

“Dispose of him,” Lady Briarwood agreed. “We cannot afford any loose ends in this endeavor.”

Whatever the rest of the conversation may have held was lost as the three turned towards the kitchens. Cassandra let out the breath she had been holding. A flutter of warmth in her chest, the idea that one of her siblings was alive setting her heart at ease. Tossing aside the idea of going to the kitchens, she left her closet hiding spot and edged towards the door that led to the dungeons. They had never been used in her memory, but she could remember playing in the darkened room with Ludwig and Whitney, and finding a secret passage that led to the forest outside of Whitestone. Mother had sworn them to secrecy when she had found them hours later.

There were torches lit every few feet as she made her way down, a contrast to the last time she had been in the dungeons. The scent of heated metal and blood hit her nose the farther down she went, but it was nothing compared to the stench of death that had suffused Mother and Father’s room. One of the cells she passed looked to have been converted into some sort of torture chamber, a metal rack lying empty, though the stains on it showed recent use. Swallowing, Cassandra looked through every cell she passed. Just as she passed the last one, something moved within it.

A low moan escaped Percival’s lips as she dropped to her knees in front of the lock, pulling the pins from her hair. The lock was harder than the one on her bedroom door, but within a few minutes it clicked open. Cassandra let out a sigh of relief, sliding the bars open without a care for the sound. Percival flinched at the sound, his eyes trying to focus on her as she came closer.

“Cass?” he croaked.

“Percival, we have to go,” she said, holding her hands out for him to grab.

He blinked blearily at her, but reached out and took them. Straining, she managed to lever him to his feet, only to notice that his shoes had been taken since his arrival in the dungeon. As he swayed, Cassandra shoved Father’s coat in his arms. Percival began to put it on, his movements jerky, as if he didn't have full control over his limbs. She left him to it and headed back to the torture room. It wasn’t hard to find his shoes and glasses, discarded in a corner, and she hurried back to his cell.

He stood where she had left him, and she handed him his glasses before setting down his shoes in front of him. It was a waste of precious minutes to get him fully dressed, but a light seemed to enter his eyes as she pulled him out of the cell. As he clomped behind her through the secret passage, Cassandra could hear someone calling after them. Ignoring it, she pushed through the passage, feeling the chill of the winter night as they left the castle.

The landscape began to shift in front of her eyes, and she felt Percy’s hand leave hers. Cassandra turned back towards him, only to see a pack of hounds at her heels. She stumbled away from them, feeling her breath come quick as she darted for the woods. The branches however, seemed intent on stopping her, grabbing onto her cloak and hair, pulling at them until she was doing little more than crawling. As the dogs bore down on her, Cassandra closed her eyes, throwing her hands up to protect her face -

And woke up.


	3. breathing

A hand on her arm made Cassandra’s eyes fly open. As she struggled to sit up, pain flared along her back, and she found herself falling against pillows instead of the hard ground she had expected. Slowly the room came into focus around her, brown wood accented by golden symbols of Pelor. Father Reinhalt released her arm as she relaxed into the pillows, relief evident on his face.

“My lady,” he said, dipping his head in a sign of respect. “I apologize, but from the sounds you were making, I thought it prudent to wake you.”

“Nightmare,” she rasped, the sound of her own voice startling her. 

Father Reinhalt grabbed a pitcher of water from beside the bed, pouring some into a wooden cup and handing it to her. Cassandra took it gratefully, her hand shaking under the light weight of it. As she took a few sips from it, she took a better look around the room. The room’s only window was shuttered, with a heavy sheet draped over it as well, making it impossible for her to tell the time of day. Besides Father Reinhalt, she was alone in the room.

“Where am I?” she asked, resting the hand that held the cup in her lap.

“The Temple of Pelor. You’ve been in and out of dreams for the last week,” he told her. A concerned look came over his face, and he pressed the back of his hand against her forehead. “Do you not remember how you came to be here?”

“I remember the forest. And before...”

She trailed off, letting one of the sun symbols catch her gaze. A sense of comfort seemed to wash over her the longer she looked at it, and Cassandra couldn’t help but feel relieved. Father Reinhalt seemed content to wait for her to continue, though his fingers rubbed against the grey wool of his habit like a nervous habit. 

“Were you in the castle, my Lady?” 

“Yes,.”

“And the illness? You were not struck by it?”

“Illness?” Cassandra said, shaking her head. “There was no illness.”

“None?” he asked, confusion in his tone. “But the Lord and Lady-”

“They lied,” she said, struggling to sit up again. “They killed...”

Cassandra shook her head, almost thankful for the pain the movement brought. Father Reinhalt touched her shoulder, and it took all she had not to flinch back from him. Her chest was tight, and she felt tears again falling down her face. As she wiped them away, Cassandra tried to draw in a breath, only to cough violently. The cup she had held fell out of her hand, splashing the remnants of the water across the sheets as she grabbed at her throat. Father Reinhalt’s hand tightened on her shoulder as she gasped her way back to some sort of regular breathing.

“Are you all right?”

Cassandra closed her eyes and felt the sheets bundle up in her palms. “My parents are dead,” she choked out. “Whitney as well. I didn’t look for the others, but I heard them say...”

“No one else escaped?”

The image of a blue coat disappearing into the snowstorm supplanted the horrible images in her head, stopping her before she could answer in the negative. He waited for her to answer, but Cassandra couldn’t think of what to say. Percival had abandoned her, running away into the night in an attempt to save his own life, when she had risked so much to save him. Surely the familial obligation she held was felt by him as well. 

“Percival,” she managed to say around the hate that threatened to spill from her lips. 

The name was more biting than she had intended it to be, but it was out there. If Father Reinhalt was perturbed by the vitriolic way she said her sibling’s name, he made no comment on it. In a way, it was worse. If he had asked, she would have told him of how Percival had left her in the snow. How he had abandoned her, as if she wasn’t worth the effort to help. 

“He wasn’t with you.”

There was a compassion in Father Reinhalt’s voice that Cassandra hated. Reaching up to his hand, she pushed it off her shoulder. Compassion wasn’t what she wanted from him. She wanted him to be angry, to feel the pain that she did.

“He left me,” she spat. “After I rescued him, he left me there. He left me to die alone.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cassandra nodded, her fingers shaking as she reached for the cup. The grain of it was smooth under her fingertips, as if it had been handled many times over the years. It was so different from the cups she had used throughout her life. The iron that they had used for everyday meals tarnished, and once enough time had passed, it had been easy to see which cup belonged to which member of the family. Oliver’s had a brown imprint of his palm on the metal, while on Vesper’s you could almost make out the individual whorls of her fingerprints. Father had often complained that they should buy new ones, only for Mother to shush him, her fingers fitting against the tarnished marks of her own cup.

“They killed him, I imagine,” Cassandra said, handing the cup back to Father Reinhalt. “Unless you found him?”

He shook his head in the negative. “No one has come down from the castle in almost two weeks. A few of the men went up to try and find answers, but we assumed that they could not return because of the quarantine. You think they are dead as well?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is a coup,” Father Reinhalt said, sitting back in his chair with a sigh. “Almost a successful one, too.”

“It was successful,” Cassandra told him. “My father is dead. Julius and Vesper are dead. There is no one left to challenge them.”

“There is still one who carries the de Rolo bloodline left in Whitestone,” he said, giving her a pointed look. 

“I can’t. I was never supposed to lead anyone, least of all Whitestone.”

“Forgive my saying so, but Pelor led me to you in that forest. Whatever doubts you may have about yourself, know that the people will believe in you. That I believe in you.”

Cassandra nodded, the strength behind his words seeming to make the weight he placed on her shoulders feel lighter. She looked around the simple room as she tried to organize her thoughts, her mind already clamoring for her to return to sleep. But there was much to do if she was to reclaim her now birthright, and sleep could wait.


	4. revolting

She barely noticed the passing of her seventeenth birthday, more concerned with last minute details to their plans. The only difference that she had noticed in the transition from sixteen were the extra streaks of grey through her hair. Father Reinhalt and Archibald had given her a sad looks as she ignored it, but said nothing to alert anyone to the importance of the date. If she had happened to find a piece of honey cake beside her bed that night, well, it was a kind gesture. 

But now, creeping through the forest, a halfway decent rapier in her hands, Cassandra felt her youth all too clearly. Father Reinhalt had disapproved of the decision, but had been forced to concede after she had pointed out that she was the only one who knew where the secret passage was. He had insisted on accompanying them, and the men and women she had chosen for this section of the assault had overruled her. And now, as they grew closer to the passage, she couldn’t help but be grateful for his presence as well. 

The forest seemed darker, more foreboding, the closer that they drew to the castle. The branches over their heads seemed more like reaching claws, and the dead air that seemed to be waiting for something to happen. A few of her people kept shooting nervous glances through the trees, as if a monster would jump out at them. 

“How much further?” Father Reinhalt asked, his voice no louder than an exhale. 

“Not long,” she replied, hoping that she wasn’t lying to him. 

Another ten minutes passed before she saw the cracked stonework that she had crawled through with Percival. It didn’t appear to have been sealed up, a fear that had been in her mind since the inception of the rebellion. She held her hand out, stopping her people. A few of them looked at her curiously, but one, Kevven, stepped towards the hole. Cassandra watched as he stepped up to the passage, his hands ready to draw the dagger from his belt.

As he stuck his head inside, Cassandra felt a cold trickle of sweat roll down the back of her neck. Her heart began to beat faster, and she couldn’t stop the abject fear that froze her where she stood. Kevven stayed where he was, before toppling backwards and hitting the dirt, headless. A few of her people let out surprised cries, but Cassandra couldn’t stop staring at the stump where his head had been.

The ring of metal from sheaths drew her back to the present, just in time to parry a blow aimed at her own neck. The creature in front of her grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the moonlight. Another strike came at her side, and she managed to dance out of the way, the blade swinging past her. She could hear the sound of the others fighting, but for this moment all of her attention had to be on this creature - vampire - that was attacking her. She had to stay alive for Whitestone.

The vampire’s eyes flared with some sort of unholy light as he moved to strike again. Before he could land it, a hand grabbed his shoulder, throwing him towards another pair that were grappling a few feet away. Cassandra felt her breath seize in her chest as she found herself face to face with Lord Briarwood. His head tilted to the side as he watched her, before a smug smile crossed his lips. His eyes met hers, and she felt herself sheath her sword without a second thought as to why.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” he said in a low voice. “What a useful position that you’ve put yourself in, little one.”

An idea appeared in her head, discordant to her own thoughts. For a moment she fought against it, before it anchored and took hold of her mind. Cassandra nodded, understanding what he wanted her to do. Lord Briarwood smiled, the tips of his canines poking over the edge of his lips. Turning on her heel, Cassandra sprinted towards Father Reinhalt, who had fallen back to the trees as the surprise attack overwhelmed their party. 

“We have to fall back,” she told him, barely managing to speak over the pain of each breath she took. “There’s too many of them.”

He looked down at her, before casting his eyes to the field in front of them. A few of their people still stood, while others were on the ground, their killers bent over the bodies. He nodded, grabbing her free hand and tugging her back into the forest. Cassandra looked back to see Lord Briarwood watching them flee, the self-same smile on his face. 

The trip that had taken them hours in their secrecy took half an hour on the return. By the time they reached the Temple of Pelor, Cassandra could barely take in a breath, and she stumbled to one of the pews and sat down in it. She leaned forward, resting her head on her knees as Father Reinhalt extinguished the candles.

“Did any of them see your face?” he asked as he barred the door with a heavy piece of wood. 

Cassandra nodded as much as she could from her position. “Lord Briarwood was on the field. He saw me.”

“We can’t stay here, then,” Father Reinhalt said. “There are some in town who I trust to hide us. Wait here a moment while I gather my things.”

Father Reinhalt didn’t wait for her to answer, vanishing into his room to grab what he needed. It was an effort to stand, but her legs held her. With nary a whisper of steel, Cassandra drew her blade and followed him. He knelt beside his bed, reaching for whatever he had stashed beneath. Drawing the blade back, she hesitated for a moment, warring within herself with what she was about to do. But the whisper of Lord Briarwood’s will overtook her, and her grip on her blade steadied. As Father Reinhalt began to turn around, she thrust her rapier forward, catching him between the ribs. He let out a choked gasp, his face turning to meet hers. Cassandra could feel wetness across her cheeks as she withdrew the blade.

“Cassandra-”

She stabbed forward again, catching him in the chest and feeling the blade scrape against bone. He reached forward, trying to grab her hand, but she pulled back before he could touch her. Father Reinhalt pressed his hand to his chest, a soft golden light spilling from beneath his fingertips. Before he could complete the healing magic, she attacked again, this time hitting him in the abdomen. Rather than let up the assault, Cassandra continued raining down the attacks, until the grey robes that he wore were soaked in red.

“Why would you-” Father Reinhalt said around a mouthful of blood. Cassandra stared down at him. A part of her, dulled beyond the haze of Lord Briarwood’s voice, urged her to do something to save him. “Why would you do this to us, Cassandra? Why have you done this?”

“I... had to,” she said, surprised at how torn the words from her mouth sounded.

“You’ve doomed us,”  he said, his hand going to clutch his holy symbol. He moved backwards, leaving himself half beneath the bed, hiding his face from her eyes. “The lights of Whitestone are fading. Do not let them...”

His words cut off in a guttural sound. A leg spasmed, while his hand scrabbled on the floor, before falling slack against the wood. Sheathing her rapier, Cassandra stood there for a minute and watched the blood pool underneath his body. Certain that he was dead, she turned and walked out of the room. She took a seat on the steps leading up to the altar, and waited.

It wasn’t long before the window above shattered, raining glass onto the stone floor. A pew shattered under Lord Briarwood’s feet, but he stepped out of it as if it was merely an inconvenience. Cassandra felt her eyes drawn to his as he knelt in front of her, his hands taking hers. They were cold, and she flinched at the temperature. A few more vampires entered the same way as Lord Briarwood, spreading out through the temple. One of them went into Father Reinhalt’s room, coming out and giving a nod to Lord Briarwood.

“You’ve done well,” he told her, giving her hands a squeeze. “Are you all right, little Cassandra?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t been harmed by these foolish rebels?”

“They took care of me,” she told him. “Father Reinhalt saved my life.”

“And yet he did not tell us that you had survived,” Lord Briarwood said, tutting. “It was a good thing you did, bringing him to justice.”

“But he was my...” Cassandra blinked, her memories of Father Reinhalt hazy as Lord Briarwood spoke.

“Your captor, my dear,” he said. “He kept you from us. Do you not remember that we protected you as your family died?”

“I was in my room.”

“And you were safe there. You remember that, don’t you?”

Cassandra closed her eyes, trying to think back to the time that he described. There was an idea of safety there, but a subtle thread of anxiety that colored it. Despite that, she found herself nodding in agreement with what he said. She had been safe in the castle, in contrast to how she had been shepherded from the Temple to safehouse after safehouse while planning the rebellion. As she opened her eyes, she found herself gazing into the pale green eyes of Lord Briarwood.

“You’ve been very brave, my dear,” Lord Briarwood told her. As he stood he kept hold of her hands, bringing her up with him. “You’ve done a great service to Whitestone this night.”

“Sylas,” one of the men called. Cassandra looked up to the window, where a younger looking man perched, his dark hair in disarray. “There’s more to the west. Cruian asks for your aid.”

Lord Briarwood grimaced, releasing her hands. In the span of a moment, Cassandra found herself lifted into his arms as if she was a babe. In a single bound, Lord Briarwood leapt to the broken window, before stepping into the open air beyond. She felt her stomach roil as she waited for the impact, only to be surprised when he set her on her feet. He leaned down as she found her balance, grabbing her chin and forcing her face up. His lips pressed against her forehead, leaving behind a sticky residue.

“Return to the castle while I deal with these men,” he told her. “Do not let anyone stop you until you reach my wife. She will take care of you.”

“I will.”

“That’s a good girl,” he said. 

His form rippled as he spoke, transforming into that of bat. She turned to the path that led to the city, her hand on the hilt of her rapier. It didn’t take long for her to reach the city proper, and the chaos controlled within. Bodies lay in the streets, bloody gashes across their necks or with their heads hanging at unnatural angles. A few vampires approached her on her journey, only to shy away when they caught a good look at her face. Cassandra paid them no mind, the goal that Lord Briarwood had put in front of her the only thing that mattered.

“Lady Cassandra?”

The pained question made her look to the ground. A young man, barely old enough to sport the beard on his chin, tried to reach out for her, only to curl his hand back to his bloodied belly. A sickening stench rose from it, and she wrinkled her nose to try and drive the smell away. 

“What are you doing here?” the boy asked. 

“I’m going to the castle,” she told him. 

“That’s certain death, my Lady. The Briarwoods will kill you.”

“They saved me,” Cassandra said.

The boy’s eyes widened in fear as her words sank in. Before he could speak again, Cassandra drew her blade. A quick cut opened his neck, and he choked on his last breaths. The voice in the back of her head assured her that it was a mercy for the boy, that the wound to his stomach would have prolonged his suffering before death. The comfort that the voice gave was not enough to calm her stomach. Taking a step away, she emptied what little she had eaten onto the cobblestones. The taste of bile on the back of her tongue did nothing to ease her stomach as she spat out the remnant onto the cobblestone. The boy’s sightless eyes followed her like a curse as she walked away, sending chills up her spine.

There was no one else alive in the streets as she passed through. A few of the vampiric nature crouched over their victims, but paid her little to no mind as she passed. The castle gates were open as she drew near, and she could see lanterns lit at the entrance. Lady Briarwood stood as she walked up. Her eyes went to Cassandra’s forehead, taking in whatever mark Lord Briarwood had left on her skin. Cassandra tilted her head as Lady Briarwood’s fingers settled underneath her chin. Lady Briarwood’s lips twisted into a mockery of a smile as recognition of who she was came. 

“It is such a joy to have you returned to us,” she said, her hand cupping Cassandra’s cheek. “I’ve wondered what happened to you all these years. But you’re so cold! Sylas must not have thought before sending you to me.”

She dropped her hand from Cassandra’s face and snapped her fingers. A young woman, her brown hair bound in a plait, stepped forward. Her hands trembled, and she looked to Lady Briarwood in fear. Her eyes darted to Cassandra for a moment, and there was a hint of awe that she quickly stifled. 

“Teresa, take her inside and draw a bath; she looks half-frozen.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Teresa said, dropping into a short curtsey.

“Take her to the third room on the second floor,” Lady Briarwood instructed. “I’ll be up shortly to make sure that she can’t leave.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Lady Briarwood waved Teresa off, her eyes returning to the darkness beyond the lantern light. When Cassandra didn’t move, Teresa grabbed her by the hand, trying to pull her away.

“Go with her, Cassandra,” Lady Briarwood ordered.

Cassandra nodded, falling into step with Teresa as she led her into the castle. If the older woman noticed how tightly she held her hand, she made no mention of it.


	5. spying

The tea was cold, although Lady Briarwood seemed not to care. Cassandra took a sip from her own cup, practice from the last year the only thing keeping her from wrinkling her nose in distaste. She had learned fairly quickly that Lady Briarwood had certain ideas about what was appropriate for her to do and say. Their daily tea, later than most at dusk, was one of the things that she was expected to attend without failure.

“How are your studies going, Cassandra?”

The question was commonplace, and Cassandra set her cup to the side. Teresa stepped up beside her, refilling it without a command.

“Quite well,” she said. “Professor Anders seems most pleased with my work.”

“Wonderful,” Lady Briarwood said.

They lapsed into silence again, Lady Briarwood’s eyes going to the window. The late afternoon light had slowly been changing to night, with the barest fingers of sunlight reaching across the sky. Cassandra took her cup again, her gaze instead on the door leading out of the room. The quiet of the room, was soon broken by the sound of footsteps. She ducked her head, looking into her cup of tea as Lord Briarwood entered the room.

She could feel Teresa stiffen beside her. Her own hand tightened around the handle of her cup, the liquid inside trembling. Lady Briarwood set her cup down as her husband entered, and stood to embrace him. A shiver of revulsion ran down Cassandra’s spine as Lady Briarwood motioned for her to stand. She dipped into a curtsy, careful to keep her eyes off away from those of Lord Briarwood.

“Cassandra was just informing me of her studies,” Lady Briarwood told him. “She’s doing quite well.”

“Are you? What does he have you studying currently?”

“I’ve just finished _Elements of the North_ ,” she said, keeping her eyes level with his cravat. “I believe I am to start _A Study of Natural Philosophy_ next.”

“Natural philosophy?” he asked. “Have you an interest in the subject?”

“It was what-”

Cassandra stopped herself, the image of a gashed throat imprinting itself over her eyes. She took a deep breath, shoving the bile that rose in her throat down and away. Lady Briarwood’s forehead creased at the pause, and one finger tapped against her hip as she waited for the answer.

“It has always been a part of the lesson plan,” Cassandra said instead. “Professor Anders is quite attached to his syllabus.”

“Well, perhaps we should ask him to change some things,” Lady Briarwood replied. “It wouldn’t do to keep you attached to stuffy old lessons.”

“If it pleases you, my Lady.

“We’ll discuss it with Anders,” Lord Briarwood agreed. “You look quite tired, child.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Taking the dismissal for what it was, Cassandra curtsied again. As she left she could head the teapot being set down, and the soft footsteps of Teresa following her out. A guard fell into step behind them as they made their way to the second floor. He stopped at the top of the stairs, but she could feel his eyes following them as they went entered her room.

As the door closed behind her, it was as if a weight had left her shoulders. Teresa walked over to one of the chairs, picking up a piece of embroidery that she had been working on before Cassandra had been called for tea. For her part, Cassandra walked over to her small desk, pulling out a few pieces of paper and an inkwell. After a few minutes she scratched out what she had written and crumpled the page. She set it off to the side, pretending not to notice when Teresa went to the door and peeked out.

“He’s gone,” she said, closing the door.

Cassandra stood as Teresa walked over to her, letting the maid help her out of the dress she wore. As Teresa went about hanging it up in the armoire, Cassandra reached under the bed and pulled out a dark tunic and leggings. It was the work of minutes to put it on and pull up her hair, carefully hiding the white streaks that had brightened under the Briarwoods care. Teresa nodded to her as she snuck out the door, already back at her embroidery.

The first few minutes were hard, as they always were. Although the scent of death had long since been dispersed, Cassandra could have sworn she smelled decay as she drifted towards the stairs. The doors to what had once been her parents’ room was closed, although she had no doubt that Lord and Lady Briarwood would return to it before the night was done. Shaking the thought from her head, she crept down the staircase and made her way down to the family catacombs.

In the year since her capture, Cassandra had relearned her way around the castle. Certain rooms were forbidden to her, such as Doctor Ripley’s small workshop, and she had learned quickly that even if she could enter them she would be found out. Rather than strike at her for these indiscretions, Lord and Lady Briarwood had her punishments meted out to her maid instead. It had been a good deterrent, and she had stopped her excursions while Teresa healed.

Those explorations continued after Teresa came to her one night before she slept. It was six months after she had been... acquired by the Briarwoods, a mere two weeks after the bruises had faded from the maid’s back. She came with a letter from Archibald. Teresa had handed her a handkerchief without a word, letting her dab away the tears that had spilled down her face. The letter from Archibald, written in his spidery hand, held the flicker of hope that Cassandra had thought snuffed out.

It quickly wavered as she read through the letter. The rebellion had been thoroughly squashed the night that she had been taken. Archibald hadn’t asked outright asked how she had been captured by the Briarwoods, but had asked of Father Reinhalt’s fate. The hopeful way that the words were written, the letters tilted as if an impassioned hand had written them, spoke of a deeper emotion. The letter quickly switched to the more mundane aspects of rebellion, things that she had grown accustomed to dealing with when she had been at the forefront of the rebellion.

He had asked that she spy for them, to give them information about the castle and its inhabitants. And so she did, relaying what little she was able to glean through letters carried by Teresa. Although the small things she gave him were enough, like the guard rotations and Lady Briarwood’s schedule, he began to ask  questions she didn’t know the answer to. The sense of debt, written in the words of his first letter, dragged on her heart. It was impossible to refuse the request, much as she tried to justify it. A few supplies were all she asked for, knowing that without them she would be unable to do as he asked.

Teresa had smuggled the tunic and leggings in for her, much like she took the letters to the resistance. The lockpicks had been harder, but apparently a few of the cooks were attached to the rebellion. A few pairs found themselves baked into rolls, delivered to her at her morning meal. It had been easy enough to sew a few hidden pockets into her gowns, so that she could carry a pair at all times. The others were tucked into a pouch, hidden with her tunic and leggings under the bed.

When she first began to go on her missions, Cassandra had restricted her snooping to the castle and barracks. It had been easy enough to slip into the head guard’s study and copy down his notes of troublesome individuals. After that excursion she had grown bolder, tracking Lord and Lady Briarwood as they wandered around at night. There were a few times that she could have sworn that Lord Briarwood had seen her, but he had continued on as if there was no issue.

Tonight’s excursion, however, would be the most dangerous that she had attempted. The Briarwoods, after careful study, had often retreated during the night hours to the undercroft, to a hole that they had created in the farthest wall. Such was this night, and she caught sight of the edge of Lady Briarwood’s skirts as the two walked down the stone staircase. Tucking herself into a small closet, Cassandra waited as a guard passed, right on schedule. There was something off about him, a scent not unlike decayed meat clinging to the air after he passed.

After another minute, sure that he had passed, she sidled down the staircase. Stepping off and into the undercroft, Cassandra stifled a shiver. The crypts had always been one of the more disturbing areas of the castle, but seeing them broken open heightened the fear that she felt from them. The open coffins, lids cracked and cast to the side, gave off an ominous haze that she passed quickly. Out of the corner of her eye she could almost swear that there was someone floating there watching her.

Rather than turn back to see, she sprinted the last few feet into the ragged hole that had been carved in the back wall. A few torches lit the interior, evenly spaced every thirty feet or so. The floor was rocky, compared to the smooth floor of the crypt, the walls passably formed but rough. As she took another step inside, a whisper of wind ran across the back of her neck. Despite her instincts, Cassandra turned around, only to see nothing but a heavy mist that hung in the undercroft.

Sufficiently spooked, she hurried down the passage, using the faint torchlight as a guide. Before long the smell of something burning caught her nose, and she stifled the urge to cough. Following the light, she stopped as the tunnel widened, forming a cavernous room. Lord and Lady Briarwood stood next to Doctor Ripley, who was gesturing across a table filled with vials of liquid. Taking as deep of a breath as she could, Cassandra moved closer to the entrance to hear their discussion.

“- is a stopgap measure at the moment,” Ripley told them. “The amount of residuum that this concoction is able to generate is at too high of a cost to the original whitestone.”

“How much?” Lady Briarwood asked.

“Two pounds of residuum per ten pounds of whitestone.”

“And you believe you can do better?” Lord Briarwood said.

“You hired me because I am the best,” Ripley said, annoyance plain in her tone. “And when I tell you that I can do better, I assure you I can.”

“How long do you think this will delay us?”

“The impact on your project will be negligible. Once I discover a better solution, production will increase until all demands are met.”

“And how long until this solution?” Lady Briarwood said as she leaned over the table of vials.

Doctor Ripley pushed her hand away before she could touch one of the vials. “It took me four months to make something that works this well. I’d expect it will be twice as long, if not longer.”

“But the production will continue as planned?”

Cassandra took a step back, freezing when the movement dislodged a pebble and sent it rolling down to the underground laboratory. The clatter stopped Ripley before she could respond, all three of their eyes going to the passage. Pressing herself to the wall, Cassandra closed her eyes and held her breath, hoping that it was enough to disguise herself from their sights.

“Yes,” Ripley replied after a moment had passed. “The batch we currently have should last another week. I can make more after that.”

Continuing to hold her breath, Cassandra began to move back through the passage. Upon reaching the undercroft without incident, she sprinted through it. A few of the mists seemed to coalesce at her passing, but she didn’t dare stop to see. As she reached the halfway mark of the steps, she had to stop. She leaned over, gasping as pain spiked in her chest. After a minute, she continued forward, her ragged breathing painfully audible in the passage.

It was rather unremarkable after that, the servants having retired for the night. The guards would have been tricky if she hadn’t memorized their shifts weeks before. She slipped back upstairs at the shift change, making it back into her room just as they finished their procession. Teresa looked up from her embroidery, but said nothing as Cassandra stripped out of her tunic and leggings and kicked them under the bed. Cassandra grabbed a nightgown from her dresser before going to her desk and pulling out a fresh sheet of paper.

Teresa came to stand beside her as she blew on the paper to help the ink dry faster. A few of the letters ran, but Cassandra paid it no mind. Folding the letter, she handed it to Teresa, who tucked it away in her embroidery basket. Both of them pretended not to notice how much her hands shook. The dark night sky, without a sliver of moon, will hide any creatures that lurk in Whitestone.

The door clicked closed behind her maid. Despite her expectation, Cassandra still flinched as she heard the lock thrown. It was only the thought of the lockpicks hidden below her bed that gave her any semblance of comfort. Standing from her desk, Cassandra walked towards her bed. The thought of sleeping after such a caper was inconceivable, but it would come eventually, once the adrenaline had worn off.

The sound of the lock opening had her turning back to the door. Her eyes went to Teresa’s normal seat, trying to see if any embroidery had been left behind, only to see nothing. A heavy weight sat on her chest as she looked back to the door. Teresa stood, her neck held in one of Lord Briarwood’s hands, her feet barely touching the ground. Her embroidery basket was gone, and as Lady Briarwood stepped into the room, Cassandra could see the hidden message in her hands.

“You’ve been naughty, my dear,” Lady Briarwood said, her long nails tapping on the heavy paper.

Before Cassandra could respond, a flash of dark purple arcane energy sparked in Lady Briarwood’s eyes. The sensation of cold fingers ran over her mind, and Cassandra lifted a hand to her head in an attempt to force it away. Her fingers had barely touched her forehead before the fingers squeezed, and she let them fall back to her side. A smile crossed Lady Briarwood’s face as Cassandra straightened.

“Have you been plotting against us?” she asked.

“Yes,” Cassandra said, the words falling easily from between her lips.

“And I thought we had rooted the last of them out,” Lady Briarwood said. “And yet it seems that these rats have even infested our castle.”

 _My castle_. The thought, unbidden, was gone from Cassandra’s mind before she had a moment to process it.

“ _Cass_ - _an_ - _dra_ -” Teresa gasped from Lord Briarwood’s grip. “ _Don’t_ -”

“How many of them still live?” he asked, his fingers tightening.

“I don’t know,” Cassandra told him. “They wouldn’t tell me.”

“Smart rats, then,” Lady Briarwood said. She opened the letter and read over the contents, before letting it fall to the floor. “Can you tell us anything about them?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to answer positively when Cassandra caught Teresa’s eyes again. The silent pleading gave her pause, just long enough to reply differently.

“No.”

“Do you know how many others might be in the castle?”

“No.”

“The staff can be replaced,” Lord Briarwood said.

“Very true,” Lady Briarwood agreed. “Will you take care of it?”

The snap of bone echoed around the room. Shock ran through Teresa’s face for an instant before it fell slack. Cassandra felt whatever control Lady Briarwood had over her disappear, but she was frozen even without it. Teresa hit the ground, but instead Cassandra could only see Whitney’s body, the way her neck had twisted at almost the same angle. The room seemed to grow colder as Teresa’s pupils widened, until the warm brown was entirely eclipsed by black.

A snap of fingers in front of her face allowed her to come back to herself. Lady Briarwood raised an eyebrow when Cassandra lifted her head. Her demeanor seemed to shift, and her arms went around Cassandra’s still form in a semblance of a hug. One of her hands cupped the back of Cassandra's head, spreading a cold chill across her scalp. Cassandra grimaced, shaking her head slightly as the odd feeling. Lady Briarwood whispered something that she didn't understand, and the feeling intensified for a moment, before fading away. As she pulled away, Lady Briarwood stepped in front of Teresa’s body, cutting it off from Cassandra’s gaze.

“It was for the best,” she told her. “We can’t have people like her using you like that.”

“They weren’t-”

“They were,” Lady Briarwood said, her voice almost kind. “Why else would they have left you here?”

“It was necessary,” Cassandra replied. The words sounded hollow in her mouth.

“If we were truly as evil as they painted us, why have we treated you as our own daughter? We want nothing but the best for you, Cassandra.”

“You killed her,” she argued.

“To protect you,” Lord Briarwood said. “We want nothing more than for you to be safe.”

“They would use you until they no longer felt they needed to,” Lady Briarwood added. “We know that you have a greater destiny, Cassandra.”

Cassandra blinked, her emotions and thoughts warring. The images of her family, dead the past three years, rose up to the forefront of her mind. She knew that their deaths had been ordered by the Briarwood’s hands. Their bloodied mouths called out for justice, but there was little that she could do for them. Their bodies were gone, and any questions she had asked about them had been quickly discouraged. And yet, the urge for vengeance, the cries that they made, seemed far off. She had mourned them and strove forward into the rebellion, hoping that it would assuage their spirits.

And yet, the rebellion had done nothing. A memory of a covert meeting, one of many, came front and center into her mind. She had sat off to the side and watched as the men and women of the rebellion argue about what would be the best way for them to continue. The suggestions that she had offered up, knowledge of the outlying areas and how best to disrupt the castle life, had gone unheard. Or perhaps they had not cared.

Their eyes, when they had strayed her way, were full of awe, rather than respect. It had taken too long for her to gain enough of a status, despite the her lineage that they coveted, to make any difference. It was different, she noticed, from the way that Lord and Lady Briarwood looked at her now. There was a respect in their eyes, even though she had used her cunning to undermine them. It filled her with a sick sense of pride, and try as she might to tamp it down, Cassandra couldn’t help the small bubble of happiness that gave her.

“What do you mean?” she asked, finally.

“There is a great future coming to Whitestone, my dear,” Lady Briarwood said. “One that we cannot let these people throw away.”

“They’ll notice if I stop writing,” Cassandra said, a sense of acceptance and duty taking root in her mind. “And Teresa was my only contact-”

“You’re right. Disrupting their stream of information will only make them suspicious. As for a letter carrier...” She tapped a manicured fingernail against her chin and turned to her husband. “Tyleri’s carriage boy?”

“We can sway him,” Lord Briarwood agreed. “And Tyleri has been demanding his payment for his part.”

“Horrible man.”

“But useful.”

“I suppose,” she agreed as Lord Briarwood bent down and picked up Teresa’s corpse.

“And what else should I do, my Lady?” Cassandra asked.

Lady Briarwood turned back towards her, a warm smile on her face. “We’re partners now, my dear. Please call me Delilah.”


	6. dying

Cassandra looked at the letter that she had comprised for the rebellion. The information in it was next to useless, but with Delilah and Sylas having left the week before, there hadn’t been much of interest to report to them. The news of Ripley’s injury might interest them, but the reclusive Countess had not been a concern to the rebellion’s leader. She had always been sure, with Delilah’s urging, to downplay what the good doctor meant to them. 

And yet something niggled at the back of her mind about Ripley. The doctor had stumbled in through the main doors of the castle, rather than from up from the crypt. Her panicked shouting had drawn Professor Anders away from the lesson he had been imparting. Cassandra had almost been grateful for the distraction; the final passages of Infernal that he continued to try and teach her stuck in her throat, mangling them beyond comprehension. She had followed him out of his study, only to see Ripley holding the bloodied stump of her hand.

The injury itself was confusing, but from her few conversations with the doctor Cassandra had gleaned that the woman pushed the boundaries of alchemy. Later, after the wound had been treated, Ripley had refused to comment any further on her lack of hand. If she hadn’t known better, she would have assumed that the older woman was in shock. But Ripley’s eyes were calculating as she walked away to her room, as if the loss of her limb was a mere inconvenience. 

Sighing, Cassandra took out a new piece of paper. No doubt Delilah would want the passage stricken. As she set the tip to the paper, a sharp bang had her hand jerk, snapping the nib. She set the broken quill aside and walked to her door. As she stepped out into the main hallway a guard rushed past her, his sword already half out of its sheath. 

She followed him, pausing at the top of the staircase. The guards were poised around Delilah and Sylas, though most had sheathed their weapons. Delilah appeared to pay them no mind, her hands running across Sylas’ face. A smear of crimson decorated his jaw, and Cassandra had to stop herself from flinching. It was too dark to be anything but his own blood, which meant that someone had managed to injure him. 

“Move,” Ripley said, pushing past her. 

Cassandra tightened her grip of the railing, barely managing to keep her feet. The doctor seemed to pay no mind, her entire focus now on her two employers. If Delilah or Sylas noticed her missing appendage, neither made a comment. Ripley, seemingly having finished her inspection of Sylas’ injuries, gestured to one of the guards to help Sylas to his feet. The one who stepped forward was younger than the others, and clearly nervous about getting close to the known vampire. With his help Sylas stood, though he leaned heavily on the guardsman. The four turned, at Ripley’s wordless instruction, and walked up the stairs.

As they made their way up the stairs, Cassandra met Sylas’ eyes. Rather than the faded green they usually kept, the irises had turned a bloody red. For a moment she felt the urge to walk up to him and offer him whatever he wished. A flare of cold across her skull banished the idea, and Cassandra grimaced at the pain that accompanied the sensation. She hunched her shoulders, breaking the contact that they shared. Raising her head again, her eyes met Delilah’s. 

“Go to your room,” she said, her voice almost cruel.

The command caught her off guard, but she found herself following it without a thought otherwise. Once inside, Cassandra pulled her chair from her desk and set it underneath the door knob. It wouldn’t be much protection, but it being there made her feel better. Rubbing her arms, Cassandra went back to the letter she had written. It blurred beneath her eyes as she reread it. The information it had was useless to the rebellion. There was nothing that they could use to defend themselves from whatever Delilah and Sylas planned to do with the ziggurat they spoke about.

But that was the point, wasn’t it? She was to feed misinformation so that they could complete whatever it was that they had planned. And yet her mind felt clearer than it had in ages, and the idea of the rebellion falling into another trap clawed at her heart. Cassandra crumpled the letter that she had written, tossing it into one of her drawers. Taking out a fresh piece of paper and a new quill, she began writing to Archibald, trying to tell him of the danger.

It was harder to do than she thought. As she tried to tell him of the acid distillery, a flash of pain went through her skull. Breathing through it as best she could, Cassandra looked at the paper, only to find a thick black smudge where the words had been. She put the paper away with the first and tried again, phrasing the words differently. Instead of pain, there was a twinge as she began to write of the distillery. Unwilling to repeat the effects, she stowed it as well. 

An hour passed as she figured out which words would trigger the effect. The letter, if the few scribbled sentences could be referred to as such, sat drying on her desk. Once she was sure the ink would not smudge or run, Cassandra folded it into fourths before folding it again. Pressing it flat, the letter could sit comfortably within the palm of her hand. It wouldn’t do much sitting in her room, but hopefully with the return of Delilah and Sylas, Desmond would be able to deliver it for her. 

Some strange urging, almost like a glimmer of warmth against her skin, convinced her to tuck the letter against her chest. Already tired from the day, and not to mention the strange arrival of the Briarwoods, Cassandra replaced her dress in the wardrobe and grabbed a nightgown. As she sunk into her bed, she could not help but feel like something important was happening, even if she couldn’t place her finger on what exactly it was. Far too soon, Cassandra awoke to someone knocking impatiently at her door. 

The knob rattled as she got up and retrieved the chair she had stuck there the night before. As soon as the chair was removed the door opened and Delilah strode in. The room’s temperature seemed to drop, and Cassandra felt herself stuck where she stood. Delilah’s eyes sparked with arcane energy, their normal blue hue almost black. She went to Cassandra’s wardrobe, flicking through a couple dresses before pulling out a black ensemble. 

“Put that on,” she told Cassandra. “Be ready in the next few minutes.”

“Is something wrong?” Cassandra asked.

“It will be,” Delilah said, a threat, or perhaps a promise, evident in her voice.

Cassandra took the dress and bowed as Delilah left the room. It was easy enough to slip it on, though fastening it without help was troublesome. The pearl buttons were cold under her fingers, and as she did up the last of them, Cassandra could feel the letter she had written against her breast. Drawing it out, she regarded it for a moment, before tucking it into her glove. Glancing into the mirror, Cassandra took out the ribbon that bound it up, letting it fall across her shoulders in a mixture of brown and white.

Delilah barely spared her a glance as she walked down the stairs. Her arm was tucked in Sylas’, who looked much better than he had the night before. There wasn’t even a trace of a scar on his jaw, and his skin looked darker than in had in awhile. Cassandra looked at the guards, taking in a shaky breath when the count she made was off by one. None of them outwardly were outwardly concerned about it, though as Sylas passed them on the way to the door she could see a few tighten their grip on their weapons.

The sky outside was dark, even though it must have been morning. She herself was shuffled behind the Briarwoods, briefly stopping as she saw the carriage they headed towards. It wasn’t their normal one, and Desmond was nowhere to be seen. Cassandra briefly caught Delilah’s eye again as she was helped into the carriage, but the same darkness within them made her hold her tongue. As the carriage began to move, Cassandra risked a look at Sylas. His face was drawn, and his eyes flicked uneasily to the covered windows of the carriage.

It didn’t take long for the carriage to stop. From the sounds outside of the carriage, it appeared to be a crowd of people. Delilah stood as the door opened, taking the hand offered to her. Cassandra waited for Sylas to follow his wife, but he stayed in his seat and gestured for her to go before him. As she exited the low murmurs of the crowd were silenced, and she felt the eyes of the crowd upon her. A sharp motion from Delilah had Cassandra standing at her side, in front of the Sun Tree. There was a hastily constructed platform in front of it, with braids of rope hanging from some of the branches. 

Cassandra took a deep breath in through her nose, trying not to let her apprehension show. Clasping her hands in front of her, she felt the letter folded beneath her glove. Slowly, she worked two fingers in and pulled it out and held it between her hands. There wouldn’t be much time to get rid of it, and little more chance that it would reach where she wanted it to. But now, standing next to Delilah, she could already feel the cold battering against her mind again. 

“Bring them out,” Delilah commanded.

There was a woman’s cry from the crowd as a group of people were lead onto the stage. The youngest, bound in chains like the others, looked to be no older than six. They were all dressed strangely, and in some cases looked like they had been doused with paint. The young boy had tears in his eyes, but didn’t cry out. There was a vivid red mark against his cheek, perhaps a punishment for doing so before. 

Sir Kerrion stepped up onto the stage, his face carefully blank. One by one, he fitted the nooses around their necks, only stopping when he came to the boy. Without a word, one of his lackeys rushed onstage, a box in his hands. Kerrion nodded his thanks and picked up the boy to set him on top of it. Once the rope was secured around his small neck, Kerrion left the stage, accepting a heavy hammer as his feet hit the dirt. The men and women on the stage were silent, though a few had tears leaking down their faces.

With a look at the man on the opposite end of the stage, Kerrion swung his hammer back. It impacted with the support, which groaned and cracked. It tilted forwards, and the stage collapsed, leaving the condemned without anything under them. Cassandra closed her eyes, but nothing could block out the sounds of necks snapping. A few seemed to have survived the initial plunge, if the gasping sounds were anything to go by. Even they, however, petered out and stopped, leaving the square silent but for the breathing of the crowd. Knowing what she was going to see, Cassandra opened her eyes.

Six bodies hung from the Sun Tree, swaying slightly. She shuddered, which drew Delilah’s attention. A hand came to rest on her shoulder, directing her back towards the carriage. Delilah stepped in line with her, though her eyes went to the guards. Taking a deep breath, Cassandra opened her hands just enough for the letter to slip through.It hit the ground without a sound, bouncing once before disappearing into the crowd. 

“Tell Jazna to find a bear,” Delilah told one of the guards as Cassandra entered the carriage. “Hang it with these as soon as it’s dead.”

The guard nodded, before heading away from the carriage. As Delilah ascended as well, Cassandra looked out into the crowd again. Many had dispersed, though a few stayed, watching them. Watching her, perhaps. The door closed, leaving her in dim light and with the two people she had sworn herself to. Or had been sworn to?

“Cassandra?” Delilah said. “Is something wrong?”

Cassandra looked to her, trying to hide the indecision that plagued her. Delilah’s eyes narrowed, and a flash of purple sparked in them again. Cassandra felt the cold come over her head again, smoothing away her worries. She was doing what she needed to do, for the betterment of Whitestone. A smug smile came across Delilah’s face as Cassandra relaxed into her seat.


	7. living

It wasn’t surprising to find Archibald in the library. He continued to stare at the mostly empty shelves as she entered the room. Cassandra moved to stand behind one of the wingback chairs, resting her hands on the blue upholstery. Archibald’s back stiffened as she waited in silence. Since the talk that Percy had presided over, Archibald had avoided her. Not without reason, although it had gone on far too long for her liking.

“I believe most of the books were sold off,” she told him. “Delilah had no real use for them, and when she needed money or favors she took to selling them to pay for whatever she needed.”

“Some of those books had been held by your family for more than three hundred years,” he said. “It pains me to see the de Rolo library in such a state.”

“It will be rebuilt.”

“With what?” Archibald asked, turning to look at her. “Whitestone is in no state to furnish your coffers.”

“I don’t expect it to,” Cassandra informed him. “But it won’t be kept here, regardless.”

“Where else would you have it?”

“In the city. One of my brother’s friends suggested it. I happen to agree.”

Archibald snorted, his eyes going to the empty shelves again. “You didn’t come here to discuss libraries with me.”

“Not entirely, no,” she agreed, stepping around and taking a seat in the chair. “But you’ve yet to respond to Percival or I on joining the council.”

“I’ve been thinking on it.”

“It’s quite a simple answer.”

“No, it is not.”

His words were spoken with such a conviction that Cassandra bit back her retort. Archibald sighed, and took the chair opposite her. After a moment, his eyes met hers. There was something in them, a distrust she had never seen before. Rather than let it shake her, she kept his gaze. It was harder than she would have expected, with the weight of the last five years hovering between them.

“Why not?”

“You know the answer to that, my Lady.”

“Because you failed me?” Cassandra asked.

His brow furrowed, and a flash of anger crossed his face before he replaced it with a diplomat’s mask. Cassandra let a smirk hang on the corner of her lips, daring him to refute her statement.

“What you have done cannot be laid at my feet,” Archibald said, his voice full of self-righteousness. “You have only yourself to blame.”

“I did what I had to do to survive,” she replied. Holding up a hand to forestall his retort, she continued, “That does not mean that it was not reprehensible.”

“People died for you.”

“They died for the image that you created of me, not for me.”

“They trusted-”

“And I trusted you,” Cassandra said, cutting him off. “I trusted that you had the best intentions towards me.”

Archibald leaned forward, anger now having replaced the mask he had cultivated. “Everything that was done, the rebellion did in your name.”

“In my _name_ ,” she spat, letting her own anger color her words. “Did you ever think beyond that? What of me? You left me in the castle with the Briarwoods, knowing full well what they were.”

“You were safer in the castle.”

“Was I? Or was I a figurehead conveniently placed for the rebellion?”

“We were reclaiming Whitestone for you,” Archibald argued.

“You left me with the Briarwoods for three years,” Cassandra told him. “It wasn’t safe in the castle, no matter the lies you tell yourself. And you used me as much as they did. Don’t cast yourself as the righteous man in this scenario.”

“I’ve never claimed to be.”

“Then understand that what I did. Blame me all you like, but don’t think that you would have done any different in my shoes.”

“I would have died for Whitestone rather than become what you have,” Archibald said, meeting her eyes. There was a spark of rebellious fervor in his eyes, a true belief in his words. “I would not have defiled the honor of my family as you have.”

Cassandra stood from her chair, feeling heat rise in her cheeks. The chair scooted back a few inches at her haste, screeching against the wooden floor. Her hands clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. Taking a deep breath, she let it out, letting her thoughts settle at the insult Archibald had just offered her.

“I am Lady Cassandra Johanna von Musel Klossowski de Rolo, Guardian of the Woven Stone,” she said, letting her voice rise loud enough the echo off of the empty shelves. “My honor and that of my family is unsullied, despite your claims.”

Rather than let him respond, Cassandra turned to the door. Her skirts swished against the wooden floor, the only sound in the room. As she reached the door, a flash of white outside of it caught her eye, before vanishing again.Letting out a sigh, Cassandra looked over her shoulder. Archibald sat in the chair, looking for the world like a man censured.

“I would like you on the council, despite our disagreements, or rather, because of them,” she said. He looked up, confusion heavy on his brow. “I need someone who will never trust me, Archibald. You know what I have done. I won’t ask for your forgiveness for that.”

“As I said, I will think on it.”

“I expect an answer by the morrow.”

Cassandra let the door click shut behind her, letting Archibald alone with his thoughts in the library. She herself was not so lucky. Percival stood across from the doors, his brow furrowed as he stared at the closed door behind her. She sighed, and held out her hand to him. He took it, and let her tuck it into the crook of his arm.

“How much of that did you overhear?”

Percival didn't respond, and Cassandra shook her head. Their conversations often were like this, stilted and unsure, even after two weeks of reacquainting. There was too much history between them, or rather, history unshared between them. She had been able to glean small stories about his time with Vox Machina, as her brother’s mercenary group had named themselves. But there was little that she could tell him in return. He had no urge to make her relive her life under the Briarwoods, and she had little reason to tell him of all that she had seen and did as their collaborator.

They walked in silence through the corridors. Cassandra let him lead, knowing from his stride that he had somewhere that he was going. Before long they had walked down the main staircase and through the doors. The feeling of the winter wind against her skin was almost novel, and she couldn’t help but look at the skeletal, snow laden branches of the trees with a sense of wonder. The last two weeks had marked the first time she had been able to go wherever she pleased, without fear of some sort of retaliation.

“Archie will come around,” Percival said, shaking her out of her melancholy thoughts. Seeing the disbelief in her face, he patted her hand. “He will.”

“I don’t want him to.”

“I forgave you.”

“I didn’t forgive you,” she told him. A pained look crossed his face as they made their way through the cobblestone streets. “I couldn’t, not for the longest time.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” Cassandra replied. “I could hate you because you weren’t there. I could hate you because hating the Briarwoods was impossible. Thinking back on it, I don’t think I could have survived if I hadn’t hated you.”

“I abandoned you,” he said. “And I’m sorry for that. I’ll likely be sorry for it for the rest of my life.”

“You shouldn’t be,” she said. “Because I forgive you for it.”

Percival pulled up short, almost tripping her up. He looked at her, surprise on his face. Cassandra smiled, the last vestiges of weight that she had felt vanishing at his suddenly boyish grin.

“You forgive me?”

“I can’t hate my brother. No matter how much of a prat he may be.”

“You have no idea-”

“Percy!”

Cassandra and Percival both turned. The red-haired half elf, who Cassandra vaguely remembered introducing herself as Keyleth, waved at him from in front of the Sun Tree. Cassandra unhooked her arm from Percival’s, surprised that they had reached the center of Whitestone so quickly. As she looked over the square, she found it hard to believe that there had been executions on the branches of the very same tree only a month earlier. Scraps of colored paper lay scattered at the base of the Sun Tree, remnants of the Winter’s Crest Festival.

The bags at the feet of Percival’s friends sobered her, and she looked back to her brother. There was a lightness to his face as he looked to at them, and he raised a hand in greeting. They nodded to her as she watched, and Cassandra raised her own hand in a small wave. Cutting eye contact with them, she turned to Percival.

“You’ll return?” she asked, knowing that asking if he was staying was a stupid question.

“Of course,” Percival said. “There are a few things that I need to take care of in Emon, but after that...”

Cassandra smiled, reaching out and adjusting the lapels of his coat. As her fingers trailed over the fabric, she noted that a few of the buttons were iron, while others were silver. The coat itself was patched heavily, although well enough that someone wouldn’t notice unless they were looking carefully. Percival caught her hands, giving them a soft squeeze before letting them drop.

“Don’t take too long this time,” she told him.

“I’ll be back and annoying you before the month’s out, I promise.”

With a final grin, Percival jogged over to his friends. One of the dark-haired half-elves tossed a bag at him, which he caught with ease. They all traded words and touches, checking to make sure that everyone had everything that they needed. Once they were certain, Keyleth strode towards the Sun Tree and placed her hand against it. A shimmering portal spiraled out from the center, and one by one they vanished into it. Percival was the last, looking back over his shoulder at her before he stepped through, the tails of his blue coat disappearing into the white glow.


End file.
